


Blue Monday

by Deb Longley (debl_ns)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Amnesia, Classics, Gen, Language, MulderAngst, POV Original Character, Vignette, minor spoilers for s07e02 "The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati", muldertorture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 07:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/Deb%20Longley
Summary: After the unconventional brain surgery of  "Amor Fati", Mulder experiences amnesia and, with no recollection of his past, confides in a psychologist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as written in 1999.
> 
> Written for the Church of X Dec. 1999 Monthly Fanfic Challenge. 3rd place Winner. Challenge #1: Either Mulder or Scully experiences near-total amnesia. He or she is still articulate, can still speak and function in the real world, but has lost all sense of self and history. There is no memory of previous life and action, does not recognize anyone around them. IMPORTANT: The person *cannot* gain the memory back within the story--ever. This is not your standard amnesia fic, where it "will all come back to him soon." His or her life has been *erased* and he or she must start over. How did it happen, what will he/she do now, how does the other react? The story must be more in-depth than 'True love survives, they are meant for each other, they're lovers within the month.' Not that such a theme can't be present, certainly, but it has to be more difficult than that. There has to be some angst, there has to be some anger and frustration, and it must mean something if they do come back together.
> 
> Transpires after "SE II: AF"; assumes the hallway scene and subsequent episodes never occurred.

Dr. Merlin Sweet's office  
Independence Avenue, Washington, DC  
December 6, 1999

 

"Tree limbs whip my face, and my heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's pulverizing my chest from the inside out, but I can't stop running. I hear him gaining on me, the sound of his footfalls on the dry, decaying leaves is deafening. Suddenly, I crash to my hands and knees, sprawled in the undergrowth. Imagining that his bullet has slammed into my back, I wonder if it has, but I'm too numb with fear to feel its impact.

"My chest heaving, the smell of rot suffocating, I force myself to my feet, knowing I've lost precious seconds, but I keep running. I see nothing but trees, their seclusion mocking me. God, is there no one who can help me?"

"I'm here to help you." It sounds cliched, even to my own ears. When he doesn't reply, I proceed. "What do you think the dream means?" 

"Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me, doc?"

"I'm interested in your interpretation, Fox." Noticing his grimace at my use of his first name, I file it away for future reference.

He rubs his stubbled jaw, deep in thought. "It's my frantic search for a place I feel safe...and the certainty that I'll never find it." He rakes his fingers through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess. "I may hate my life now, but it *is* my life."

"What is it that you despise?" 

"Jesus, isn't that obvious? I'm not myself--I'm somebody else. I was myself last month, but now everything's changed. I've changed! I don't know who I am!! *Their* butchers saw to that!!!" Climbing like a crescendo, his voice is outraged, tinged with desperation, reverberating through the office. 

"You're Fox Mulder."

"No shit!" Unapologetic, he remarks with sarcasm, "I'd tell you that I'm not always this much of a bastard, but..." Grimacing, he kneads his forehead as if all he's generated with his outburst is a massive headache. "Mul-der." He rolls it around his tongue, tasting it, savoring it, like he's decanting a bottle of superb, rare wine. "Fox." Distastefully, he spits it out like he's ascertained the wine's been spoiled and tastes bitter.

"You don't like your name."

He grabs my name plate from the desk top, gives it a perfunctory glance, then sets it back down. "It's worse than Merlin--although not by much." At that, we both grin, but, slowly, his smile fades. "When I woke up in the hospital, I didn't know my name or what I was doing there dressed in a hospital gown at eleven o'clock in the morning. Learning what my name is validated that I'm real, that I exist but nothing more."

Rising from his chair, the legs scraping on the hardwood floor as he pushes it away from my desk, he paces the room like a restless lion. A bit too thin, he looks as if he's been sick, which he has. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his khakis; I can see that he's clenched them into fists. He's suppressed his emotions so thoroughly that I wonder if I'll be able to reach him. 

He pauses in front of an antique oblong mirror, that hangs between two windows overlooking The National Mall, and, with his back to me, he massages his neck with one hand. Inspecting his reflection, he traces the contours of his face with the tips of his fingers, running them over his nose and lips, and coming to rest on the mole on his right cheek, before his arm drops to his side. "I'm tired of staring into a mirror, trying to see something familiar. I spent roughly an hour this morning looking at my face from every conceivable angle--it's still the face of a stranger."

His shoulders slumping slightly, he seems wounded, alone. Turning away abruptly from his image, he backtracks to his seat and sinks into it, the old leather loudly protesting the burden, his arms and legs drooping like his shoulders moments ago. The fatigue on his face is pronounced: there are shadows under his eyes, and the twin lines on either side of his mouth reveal his age in a way they hadn't before. He brushes the front of his white t-shirt as if he is removing a piece of lint, but the words that follow tell me that the simple gesture implies something further. "When I open my closet, I'm shocked at what I find--the Armani suits, eclectic ties, Italian leather shoes. Even though I must have worn them, I don't want to put them on."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know." Reconsidering, he weighs his words carefully before speaking, but they still sit clumsily on his tongue. "It's...it's disorientating. The world no longer seems real, but quite surreal, like in a dream, only I know that I'm not going to wake up." He sighs heavily. "After I was released from the hospital, and went home, I found two fish belly-up in the fish tank. Appropriate, don't you think?" 

"In what way?"

"They were metaphors."

"Maybe they were just starved for food."

"They were dead; figuratively, Fox Mulder is dead. I flushed every last, fucking fish down the toilet--even the live ones."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"I thought that I would feel better but I didn't. Empty fish tank, shell of a man. Because of a choice conceived without my consent, I have to walk away from who I was; that person doesn't exist anymore--his soul doesn't, anyway." 

"You just referred to yourself as 'him'."

He grunts. "Yeah. I guess I did." His eyes close briefly then open, widening slightly, exposing that they are...sightless. He doesn't see me, or anything else for that matter, so lost is he inside his own head. 

"Talk to me, Fox," I direct.

My vocalization releases him from his paralysis, and he blinks, his eyes appearing slightly disoriented then focusing. His face looks like he's been hit in the back of the knees and tumbled down a flight of emotional stairs. His voice breaking, he moans, "I-I just wish none of this was happening. I-I don't want it--any of it. H-How do I go about finding a lost life?" He realizes that he's very close to tears and clears his throat, trying to regain control. "It's like being confined inside of a tunnel--I can see only what's in front of me, not where I've been."

"Do you realize that you're already making the decision?"

"To move forward."

I nod, indicating that he got it right. "Yes." 

"I have thought about it a little," he admits. "I do know that I have to leave the FBI. Colleagues know me but I don't recognize them. It makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I can make a difference somewhere else in another segment of law enforcement. Police work perhaps." He leans his head against the back of the chair and emits a loud sigh. "Shit, I don't know." There is an audible lack of enthusiasm in his tone.

I fold my hands and place them on top of the desk, leaning toward him. "It's okay to be confused," I assure him. "You've been cast adrift, in a way."

"I feel like I'm failing everyone--my sister, my partner, humanity."

"What about your responsibility to yourself? To your future?"

His eyes darken and fill with grief, and his mouth moves into a taut line. "I have to let go of the past because, until I do, I have no future."

Looking around the room, something on the desk catches his interest. Seizing a framed photograph, and holding it in both hands, he inspects meticulously the sandy-haired child, dressed in a Little League uniform, before replacing it. "Is he your son?"

"His name is Jesse. He lives with his mother in Richmond."

"I have a picture of my sister Samantha. She has pretty hair and a sweet smile." His voice defeated and bitter, he says, "I don't remember her." His frustration escalating, he continues, "That's the worst thing of all that I have no recollection of my family or my friends." Cracking his knuckles, a patent reaction to his inner tension, it takes a moment before he catches himself, then he folds his hands across his chest, hugging himself.

He redirects his attention to the petite red-haired woman who has been sitting silently in the chair to his right. He is staring at her, his gaze infinitely sad. "It's not just about me anymore. Without meaning to, and I know it's not my fault, I've hurt her. I don't know her, I don't remember our friendship."

"Dana came with you today."

"Yes. She's been helping me. She's given me a thumbnail sketch of my past, and without that, I'd feel empty. Feeling empty hurts. I'd rather feel anything but empty."

She is clutching a handful of tissues, her head bowed. For an instant, I think she's crying. She raises her head and meets his gaze; his hazel eyes narrow, probing her red-rimmed ones intensely. What he observes in her eyes isn't tears of sorrow, pity, or even anger--it's much more.

Courage.

His face, haggard from experiencing the effects of anger, exhaustion, and anxiety, all in the space of an hour, erupts into a small smile, warming and transforming his features. What he sees in her is enough. For now.

Reaching for his hand, she covers it with her own, and gives it a quick squeeze. 

Turning to me, he declares, "See you next Monday, doc."

"Next Monday," I echo. 

They both stand up; she extends her hand to me and I grasp it in mine. "Thank you for letting me sit in, Dr. Sweet," she says, her gratitude mirrored in that incredible face, and her firm grip.

I nod, accepting her thanks, but my mind is already on my next appointment. I open the pertinent folder and begin perusing my notes on last week's session. Despite the concentrated scrutiny of my scrawling handwriting, I manage to hear the brisk click of her heels, endeavoring to keep up with his long legs, and I grin. Voices out in the foyer, waft through my open office door.

"Come on, Mulder, I'll treat you to all-you-can-eat Chinese food."

"Do I like Chinese, Scully?"

There is silence as if she is hesitating before responding. "Find out for yourself," she speaks finally. I approve.

There are some losses one never gets over, never accepts. She isn't ready to give up. Neither is he.

~~~end~~~


End file.
